


Love Me Wrong

by TheMaw



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II, Dark Souls III
Genre: Ashen One is an amalgamation of Souls, Multi, What if the Ivory King loved his Oracle so much he made a child for them, what if Eleum Loyce merged with the Painted World
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMaw/pseuds/TheMaw
Summary: I'll never be how you remember me, so I'd rather be in your memory.
Relationships: Ashen One (Dark Souls)/Original Character(s), Bearer of the Curse/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Though This is Tragic

It was hard to say what had gathered up the Ashen One’s curiosity. What had led them so far deep into the Painted World and it’s eternal winter. What had caused them to return so long after their last visit - a poor one that had been, having only made it so far as to speak with the curious Painter and her severe guardian. If, and he was not entirely certain, Sister Friede was the child’s guardian figure. Or that rough fellow, Sir Vilhelm, or even that odd Gale? It all seemed so convoluted now. A twisting tale that he could hardly stand to unravel without the mind numbing ache which built in his temples. Did all things in his unlife have to be so ridiculous? Could nothing be laid out plainly?

But for now it mattered not. His curiosity had once more bested him, leading him down a path that, seemingly, few had ever traveled in this land of ice and snow. 

Not that he could blame anyone for not traveling this winding, twisting path with it’s sudden drops and crumbling stones. He was surprised that he hadn’t turned back to pursue another path or different matters all together. At numerous points did he swear he was going to find himself plummeting off the side of the ledge. A damn fool. He was a damn fool moving ever onward. No matter how careful he was. And he was being absolutely careful in his steps, lest he falls over the edge and suffer a most humiliating and temporary death. That damn Sir Vilhelm would have laughed in his face if he knew that he had fallen to his death following some ridiculously difficult path to find.

That was the last thing he needed. But where was the logic in this quest? He was traversing a path which might not be a real path. He was going through all of this because… because...

There was something here, he was certain, which called him ever onward. Something which makes his heart ache with longing and familiarity, much like when he’d first seen the winter wasteland of this bleak painting.

His hand rested upon the mountainside, armored fingers sliding across the ice and snow slick surface. He couldn’t say he was using it for any purchase, nor any safety reasons, rather the solidity of the mountain’s rough, exposed side was reassuring. At least it had been till it suddenly dipped under his hand, throwing his balance. He fell into the sudden dip, bracing himself for impact. Be it to die — an experience he wholeheartedly despised — or fall into a cave.

A blessing it was, then, that he hit the rocky terrain, snow crunching beneath the weight of his armored frame. The sudden fall had been disorientating, but he didn’t linger too long on the worn snowy floor of the entrance to what could only be an unexplored cave. The Ashen One carefully pushed himself to his feet, already reaching for his weapon should he need it. This land of snow and ice was an unforgiving place. There were untold dangers, be they corvian in nature or ancient knights from long before his time.

Only the dimly lit cave greeted him. The dimly lit cave and the mournful wail of the wind passing through the cavern.

A blessing, perhaps? Or just luck. Still, the sight of the cave made his heart squeeze in his chest, as thought the flickering embers in his ashen body were reacting to something he could not see. Just something which he could feel. He had to keep going. To keep searching deeper and deeper and find whatever it was that had controlled the spark of his heart. Whatever it was that held such sway over him.

And if he could put an end to his wild curiosity… he would embrace it. Embrace it faster than he had embraced his duties as being the last hope for a dying world, a fading, flickering flame being snuffed out by it’s own ashes.

It was startlingly easy for him to lose track of time as he moved through the winding tunnels, incapable of seeing too deep into the abyssal darkness of the cave system. Yet no creature came forth from the dark to attack him. Not skeletons or corvians or wolves. No secret invader nor half mad knight.

It was almost a relief.

It was almost like he was playing into the hands of destiny. And that thought left such a bitter taste in his mouth. Wasn’t he tired of being a puppet to destiny? As though he had a choice to be anything else. Yuria wished to puppet him as much as everyone else. Everyone but the Fire Keeper. He still wasn’t entirely certain if she had some personal stake in the Linking of the Fire beyond what duties bound her to it. That much, he considered, as a relief. Albeit a short lived one, but a relief, nonetheless.

For a moment all thought left his head as he moved into a larger open area deep within the tunnels. At last he exited what was surely an antechamber into a great room. A room which reminded him so much of Firelink Shrine, or, perhaps a kiln? Yes, a kiln. And there was light which came from above. A soft hued pale light which painted the interior in shades of smoky grey. Yet it was what lay before him which truly made his heart still.

Snowflakes danced upon the bittered wind, falling like a thousand twinkling stars from the hole in the roof of the cavern. They drifted, descending further and further from the high ceiling, glimmering behind the great maw of stalagmites and stalactites, building up like a great pale tongue. Yet there in the midst of this snowdrift sat a precarious figure, a still body of a sleeping prince. Soft alpine locks, only a faint shade away from matching the blue-white flakes, stirred with the chill wind. He was a strange, yet beautifully sad sight, as though the world had frozen him in this particular moment, head bowed and eyes closed. Icicles glittered like crystals upon the length of dark lashes, or tears frozen before they might ever fall. 

He was beautiful. A frozen prince from one of those miracles he had collected over time, heartbroken with longing for someone or something he has been denied for all of eternity.

The Ashen One felt a pang in his chest as he drew closer to the illuminated figure. Guilt, perhaps? As though he were responsible for this one. This lost soul. As though he had some stake in how he ended up here, surrounded by feathery snowflakes, his somewhat familiar dark garb hazy with frost. His footsteps were light, following the only clear cut path between the stone pillars. To his shock, the clearcut path had sudden drops on either side. He swallowed hard, not wanting to peer down into the abyss, almost as though he feared he might see glowing red eyes from a creature of a time long since past. A time when the Fire might have merely been in the Autumn of its youth and not on its last legs. He would have to be more careful now, since he hadn’t once come across a bonfire throughout the length of his long journey. But he was so drawn to the singular figure. The only other person here. 

Even if that figure wasn’t alive, he needed to know.

He needed to apologize.

Apologize for what? What had he or some part of him done to this prince? And why was he so certain that he was a prince? There was no royal regalia, no crown nor sign of something, anything related to a fallen kingdom that he could see. So why, then, did his heart scream at him that such was the case? Why did the denial make his stomach drop and his eyes water? Why did it make the guilt which was building up the closer he got to the snow drift drag him under?

“Who are you? Why did you bring me here?” He whispered, voice thick with pain, uncertainty. It echoed in the cavernous great room, bouncing off the walls before being dragged down into the depths. The bottomless pit. He stumbled once he reached the throne of ice and snow, falling to his knees before the eternally young man. He was taller than he had expected, this beautiful figure. And by the gods was he beautiful. His ivory skin, how it glittered like it was encrusted with diamonds. His long, straight nose, ending in a slight upturn. His mouth, surprisingly generous, appearing so soft and tinged only slightly blue. No air stirred from his nose. No puff on condensation. 

A beautiful corpse which ought to have been left well enough alone in this forgotten place.

Tears trailed down the Ashen One’s cheeks, beneath his steel helm. Thick, greyish tears. What was the meaning of this? This sudden soul crushing sorrow which had begun to eat away at him so voraciously. He was so embarrassed, losing control of him over some frozen corpse. Some unknown youth who had the misfortune of dying in this frozen wasteland. This damn echo of a kiln. How did it even exist in this godforsaken place? Who would paint such a world? Fill it with such pain and place this here? This echo of a land he didn’t know - and leave this man here?

Hadn’t he suffered enough already? 

“I’m sorry, my Prince.” He spoke, the words pulling themselves free from his lips. The words of another. Words which were not his own, but perhaps belonging to some ghost. Someone’s humanity which he had made use of. His hands trembled as he forced himself up, trudging through the snow. His knees made contact with the seated figure’s own, and he tumbled forward, arms moving on their own. They wrapped round the slender shoulders of the forgotten prince. He was so cold. So damn cold. Colder than the snow and the ice. Colder than the embrace of death. 

“Speak to me, please. I beg you. Gods be damned, speak to me, my Prince of Eleum Loyce.” He was begging, begging like a fool. Crying to the dead. Demanding the dead to speak. And what was stopping him? He wasn’t hollow. He wasn’t - he wasn’t even human. The revelation came to him suddenly, sharply, making him jerk back, thrusting the other from him. Glittery snow-white locks clung to his armor, tearing, snapping with the harshness of his movements. His gaze darted across the other, looking for something. Something that might explain his sudden sureness of that statement. His sudden revelation. He could ignore the other things, the feelings and words which had erupted from him nearly uncontrollably. Those he could pin to that belief of the last fragments of some poor ghost. Some poor soul. His skin was too perfect, smooth as stone. As porcelain. Like a doll.

“Of course you’re a doll. And I’m just another fool.” He hissed, releasing the doll. It crumbled, dejectedly, into the snow. Long locks of white twisted about his head, displaced and disheveled, his perfect garments now rumpled, roughened by his touch. Smeared in ash. Disgust twists across the Ashen One’s features. Disgust or disappointment. He had wanted something more. Something real. Something with meaning. And yet, all he’d been graced with was little more than a porcelain doll.

A beautiful corpse… what a joke.

What a terrible joke.

How pitiful he must have seemed? A being of ash, at last feeling something almost real. Something he could have claimed for himself. Longing. Desire. Sorrow. And for what he had believed had been some beautiful prince he might have known in another life. Perhaps a lover? And it, he glared then at the fallen doll, it had betrayed him. This inanimate thing, which lay upon the snow, a discarded doll. Whoever had crafted him - no, it, had been a master at their craft. He had looked so real. So sad and so real. 

Just another item discarded in this miserable place. Left behind by some uncaring soul to rot like everything else he’d seen in this Painting.

It hurts, some part of him aches for the doll. For this fae tale prince. Some part of him weeps at the loss as he turns his back on it. He was sure how best to get back. He couldn't for the life of him recall how he managed to get here in the first place. He searches through his things as he moves down the walkway, pausing only once he’s wrapped his fingers around the ashen bone. It falls to pieces in his hand as he crushes it, already feeling his body pulling into the aether.

Yet for the briefest seconds before the world fades, and this kiln is lost to him, he could swear he heard a soft voice. A uniquely accented voice, soft and pleasing to the ear.

“Welcome home… sovereign.”


	2. Hides Away Like a Ghost

“But if you’ve given me this, won’t you be unable to contain the Chaos?” The Bearer of the Curse nearly feels like a fool for asking, but the question nags at him all the same. It nips at him with impossibly sharp little teeth, holding on so tight he cannot push it aside, cannot let it go. Not now, not after what he had been through, what he had seen. All that he had felt. The heat of the Chaos still lingered in his bones, pulled at his senses, however dulled now. The memory of metal striking metal, of a valiant King and all of his knights, baptized in flame, locked in the eternal loop of their duties. And he, as any ought to, had at last... He breathed slowly, attention fixing itself once more on the present. Once more on the melancholic gift he'd received. Been blessed with. Between his palms the quiet soul of Alsanna herself gently flickers, black flame against the worn leather of his gloves. Oddly, it doesn’t burn. It should, he thinks. It ought to, because Elana had seared him alive and Nadalia had almost rendered him to ash. One out of rage and the other longing for something she could not have, true.

But burning was burning and he didn’t see much difference between the two, in the end.

Alsanna turned her head to him, as though she had caught on to the trail of his tumultuous thoughts, and the fall of her loose, tangled hair masked her expression. Sunlight glinted off her diadem and cast weak shadows across what little of her face which could be seen, but they were not strong enough to cut against the melancholy that seemed to permanently rule her expression. Her hands remained clasped before her, locked in eternal prayer. Some soft chant he'd never been able to perceive, not that he desired to really know in the first place. “The flame has weakened, thanks to you.” She answered at last, her voice still carrying its unearthly airiness which had intrigued him from the beginning. “I cannot abandon Eleum Loyce, heiress as I am to my lord’s wishes. There is nothing beyond this place for me, though you are kind for thinking to ask.”

_Kind_ , Ira nearly repeated but caught himself at the last minute. He wasn’t sure any longer if what he felt could be called _kind_. Sure, some of it was concern for her well-being - and some of it was even _genuine_. But there was also practicality mixed in, with a bone-deep weariness of the whole mess tinging his perception. She didn’t deserve to _burn_ , and that was the simple fact of it. No one in Eleum Loyce did. Not really. Not for the mistakes of others long past, nor for the mistakes of those who weren’t even in their regular sphere of acquaintance -

“There is a whole world outside of this place, Ivory Queen.” He pointed out nonetheless, adjusting how he cradled her gentle soul in his hands and thinking only of a distant memory of something beyond ice and snow which covered this place. A vague impression of greenery, of the sea. If only he might be able to make her _see_ it, perhaps...

“It is not a world I would find comfort in, kind stranger.” Alsanna replied firmly, sitting a little straighter in her spot of prayer, not quite with the posture of her sisters. “You have my thanks, meager as they are for all that you have done... but I will not be swayed. My place is here, with my lord, and to honor him.”

_He was a man who drowned in honor that took his life_ , the words danced on the edge of Ira’s tongue and he nearly spoke them just to watch what effect they might have. If any reaction came at all. But she was not to be tested, and he was too tired to press the issue any further. The strength of her soul was no small thing, after all, beating against his hands as it was. Even without it, Ira doubted that Alsanna was truly in any way diminished. And he didn't wish to rile her ire, not truly. She was a woman in perpetual mourning. A woman who would remain long after all life had been extinguished in this frozen kingdom. Had he not just made sure that her Lord at last could truly rest? Even still, there was one matter at hand which he could not ignore. One matter which remained close, yet far, and lingered within his periphery.

“And what will happen to him?” Raising his chin, Ira cocked his head at the figure waiting partway down the sloping stairs. “Are you able to overcome your fear and let him close, as you have me? He’s still yours, after all. I’m a stranger, but he is - “

_“Do not.”_ For a moment Alsanna’s voice carried all the chill which had tempered Eleum Loyce for ages, quick and sharp enough to flay mail and flesh apart. Her clasped hands tightened around one another, knuckles white as the Ivory King’s armor had been charred. From beneath the heavy shadow of her curtaining dark hair he thought he could see the way her lips did narrow, the tension which built along her jawline. Her presence filled the whole of the vast space, and he could feel it like the great winds outside. All frost and sharp icicles. It burned, not with heat, but the absence of it. Her warning. Her threat. She was not one to be trifled with, he knew, he understood. He hadn't thought the topic might cause her such a fleeting glimmer of, perhaps, a quiet rage. A burst of anger. But she needed to make herself clear. Very clear. And so he waited for her to settle and gather herself, glancing at the figure below which had turned their head to face him and the Silent Oracle. Silence crept between them, eagerly filling the void which the oracle's anger had built. The faintest rustle of cloth, or the clink of armor seemed almost muted by the stillness. As if it, too, held its breath. Alsanna’s shoulders briefly sagged, as though the weight of the other’s gaze was more than she could bear. A part of him felt for her - truly, it did. But there was no easy way out of the situation and he couldn’t make the decision for her. Not in this.

At last the shadowy features of her face realigned themselves, softening into that familiar sorrow. That familiar ache.

“I still fear the flame.” Alsanna confessed slowly, no longer looking at him through her veil of hair. “And I doubt such shall ever fade. I cannot look upon him without seeing the face of my lord - I know it is no fault of his own, but I cannot give him the care a mother should. Not while that ember burns within him.” She added in a tremulous murmur, hands tightening their aching grasp once more. “Think less of me if you must, as I know you likely do... but I am what I am and fear still rules much of my being as strength does yours.”

Incomprehensible, unyielding, just as she ought to have been. Just as any mother, choosing a path which might better suit what they loved. Who they loved. Had it not been polite, he might have sighed, if only because he felt like there was no going. No going forward. No going back. She had her part, had made it thoroughly known to him. Closing his fingers around the flicker of her soul, Ira gently stowed it away rather than absorbing it on the spot. Crushing it, so that whatever power had let her continue as she had for so long might be his - as though it would ever be enough to quiet the prickle of dread at the back of his mind.

“I’m not that strong, Alsanna.” Ira told her quietly, sketching a loose bow more to soften the notion of farewell than out of politeness. Straightening up once again he stepped back, resigned to what would be coming when he engaged the only other resident of Eleum Loyce before leaving. “Just tired.”

She didn’t respond, perhaps for the better as his muffled footsteps barely disturbed the quiet of their surroundings. Cold no longer bit at his feet with ravenous spikes of pain as he descended the stairs again, but he hardly noticed. Eleum Loyce would likely never know lightness or warmth again, even if people _did_ eventually return to the barren kingdom. But perhaps he could still offer a different fate to the person who waited patiently for him to approach, if they would listen and consider his words with a more open mind. _Or I could beg_ , Ira thought grimly; tucking the notion away for now as he lingered within an arm’s distance of the other. Lifting his head, he offered the best attempt at a smile that he could manage under the circumstances and pretended that he could ignore the tugging which had been present at the edge of his thoughts for some time now.

“Things should be something close to alright now.” Ira began slowly, feeling the words clump together awkwardly within his mouth. Less because of faintly inquisitive eyes set in a face that had been crafted with no shortage of love, and more because he was running out of excuses to stay and knew it. And still, _still_ it felt wrong to just walk away with things as they were.

He wasn’t a man who believed in happy endings anymore, but that did not stop him from wanting to leave a bearable footnote before saying a true goodbye.

“The Chaos,” Ira continued, “has no host for now. If it takes one or crafts a vessel in the future I can’t say... Pyromancy was never my specialty until recently.” Even then, it had only been to make traversing the Old Iron King’s hellhole of a domain somewhat easier.

His companion nodded slowly, each subtle movement carefully articulated as though it had been practiced many times but only recently recovered after Eleum Loyce’s thawing. Somehow it no longer disturbed him. Did it ever?

“You have done us a great kindness, sovereign.” The words held meager weight on their own with how soft the speaker’s voice was, but they were the most sincere Ira had heard since he’d left home. “Eleum Loyce remains in your debt -”

“I don’t want it.” Ira cut him off unintentionally, old frustration and anger tinged with resentment briefly rearing its ugly head. As soon as the words left his mouth he forced himself to close his eyes and draw in a measured breath, hands curling into fists as he tried to push beyond the wellspring of mixed emotions which had been a near constant companion since his journey began.

The other waited, whether out of politeness or surprise Ira could only guess. 

“I’m sorry.” He let the sentiment ease out on the edge of his exhale, feeling the breath empty most of his being of everything but the most worn and stubborn of feelings. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Syl- Your Highness. The anger I have is not your fault and you shouldn’t be subjected to it.”

Not the exit he’d _wanted_ to make, that much was for certain. 

Clearing his throat, Ira tried gathering his voice again. “Safe as it may be for now, the Oracle has elected to stay so that she may contain what’s left of the flame. There’s no one else remaining in Eleum Loyce - “ _Not now that I led her last four knights to their deaths_ , Ira thought bitterly. “But if you would like... if the thought is one you find agreeable, you could accompany me to Majula.”

_And what_ , Lucatiel’s voice had a touch of Shalquoir’s knowing mockery within it that Ira didn’t appreciate, _would be accomplished in doing so? You would deprive him of his home, of his mother, of the chance to morn for the man they have both lost? You would consign him to being a stranger in a strange land and time, left behind again to mourn your absence when either the curse or your journey takes you to your end and he is left with no way back?_

_It would be better,_ Ira shoves the thought at that mishmash of voices vehemently _, than leaving him here where he is already close enough to alone, and be frozen in near-death all over again._

_Selfish,_ Lucatiel’s heavy voice admonished; that one word making his stomach clench before it plummeted to somewhere near the Abyss.

_Cruel_ , singsonged Shalquoir’s deceptively sweet voice. He could almost hear a purr attached to the thought, though she was eons away and indifferent besides. _How very human._

“My place is here, sovereign.” Was it his imagination or was there actually something like regret in that tender voice? “My mother... she needs me. I could not in good conscience leave, when it would make her so alone.”

_Surely you know_ , the more bitter parts of Ira longed to say, _that she can’t even be here for you as she should. You must know, because nothing gets by your eyes. You know and you do not want to see it. Or you can’t see it, because she’s your mother and perhaps you are closer to her than any of us might think._

“Suppose you could always try and rebuild, once enough of the ice fades.” Ira began instead, unable to do more than project a thin attempt at cheer into his voice. “Can’t say how long that might take, but... the world changes. It may come sooner than expected.”

It wouldn’t. No more than Heide’s Tower of Flame could pull itself from the sea or Majula suddenly rebuild its once bustling populace. This kingdom of ice and snow, was already a relic of the past. Abandoned, forgotten, set a drift. It would linger as a tale, maybe remembered in a miracle. Perhaps built up like something beautiful, a chivalrous King set about to save his kingdom, dutiful wife and son awaiting the day he may return, locked in eternal prayer. A gentle end compared to the bittered truth.

“I won’t be able to linger here any longer, I think.” Unbidden, Ira felt the urge to swallow. “We haven’t any more Loyce souls to collect, and I may well and truly forget my way back if I were to try.” Shanalotte likely wouldn’t forgive him, Ira knew. The sun could fall into the ocean or the Abyss creep up to swallow everything, and she would still remember if he made the choice to disappear now. He couldn’t really blame her if she did choose to hold it against him. “If...” Ira trailed off, certain that continuing that trail of though would lead nowhere good. And yet his tongue moved anyway, plucking up the words despite better sense. “If you were to change your mind, there is much of the world you might be able to see beyond this place. The sun shines, in Majula, and the temperature is mild on most days. You would be next to the sea, and in a day’s walk you could be within the Huntsman’s Copse and have the continent at your feet depending on where you want to go.”

Things Betwixt might hold one’s interest if they decided to head north, and beyond it would be the Cardinal Tower once a person managed a trek through the Forest of Fallen Giants. South from Majula there was only Heide’s Tower and No-Man’s Wharf, with the Lost Bastille more a graveyard of misery than any place for sight-seeing. Past the Undead Purgatory and the Shaded Woods, they could have their pick of locales. Anything from Drangleic Castle itself to the Earthen Peak and its cadre of pyromancers to Brightstone Cove Tseldora.

_Already thinking of it like he’ll actually say yes and come with you_ , Ira chided himself. _Desperate now, aren’t we?_

He _was_ , unfortunately enough. Reluctant to leave a friendly face and lose yet another companion after getting used to having one again.

“It sounds lovely, sovereign.” Came the mild answer as snow-pale lashes briefly lowered, obscuring the Prince’s green eyes. “But I cannot abandon my duty, nor would I ask of you to do the same.”

_Duty_. The word still hit like a stone in the gut, heavy enough to hurt and empty of any positive meaning. He’d heard it bandied about many times even before coming to Drangleic, used as both the switch and the carrot to drive him forward regardless of any other need or want to _stop_.

“I understand.” Ira replied, reaching a hand into the pouch at his side and pretending that what he was looking for wasn’t immediately within easy grasp. The soapstone felt warm against his glove, softly glowing a comforting white as he held it out for the Prince to take.

It looked somewhat out of place in the other’s palm, like a pauper’s trinket.

“If something happens,” Ira withdrew his hand, meeting the other’s inquisitive gaze. “You can use that to call upon me. I’ve another on me, so I’ll feel the summoning regardless of where I am.” _And should you change your mind_ , he did not say no matter how the words collected upon the back of his tongue, _I will be happy to make good on my promise._

“Thank you, good sovereign. It is a generous gift.”


End file.
